The fat man's body was transported back to the medical examiner's office. After a full examination, Detectives David Mills and William Somerset received the detailed autopsy report and returned to the precinct.
The moment they stepped inside, they sensed something strange in the air. Officers were gathered in small groups, whispering among themselves. Their tones carried disdain, even hostility. Still preoccupied with the case, the two detectives paid little attention and went straight to work.
Somerset flipped through the forensic report and summarized calmly, "The killer placed a bucket beneath the victim and forced him to eat continuously. According to the coroner, the feeding lasted more than twelve hours. The victim's throat was severely swollen from overconsumption. At some point, he lost consciousness."
Mills let out a cold scoff. "The killer is a fucking sadist."
Somerset nodded gravely. If someone simply intended to kill, a knife or a gun would have sufficed. There was no need for such prolonged torment. Combined with the word GLUTTONY and the quotation from Paradise Lost found at the scene, it was clear the murderer had a larger purpose. Recalling Luca's earlier remarks, Somerset said slowly, "In Catholic doctrine, there are seven deadly sins: gluttony, pride, lust, greed, sloth, envy, and wrath."
He looked directly at Mills. "If Luca's deduction is correct… there will be six more murders."
Mills frowned. Though the idea had originated from a Mafia associate, he could not deny its logic. The killer had deliberately left notes and symbolic clues. Investigating from the perspective of religious ritual murder was clearly the right direction.
After a moment of silence, Somerset spoke again. "I want to withdraw from this case. I'm about to retire. I can't end my career with something like this."
This case was too complex, too calculated. It would not be resolved quickly. He did not want an unsolved serial murder attached to his name at the end of his career.
Mills, recently transferred and eager to prove himself, replied immediately, "Then leave it to me. I'll finish it."
"Mills, I suggest you reconsider," Somerset said. "You're new here. You're not ready for something like this."
He could sense it—the mind behind these killings was methodical and patient. This was not an ordinary criminal.
But Mills refused to back down.
When Somerset's request to step aside was denied informally, he went directly to his superiors and formally requested retirement. "Let me retire quietly," he said.
The response was immediate and forceful.
"Somerset, do you realize how many people are watching this case right now?" his superior shouted, slamming a fist against the desk. "All of New York City is talking about it. Every media outlet is reporting on it. The damned newspapers had the story before our patrol cars even arrived at the scene!"
Public pressure was mounting rapidly. If the NYPD failed to solve the case, the backlash would be severe.
"What are you expecting?" the superior continued bitterly. "Some enthusiastic citizen to come solve it for you?"
Somerset answered bluntly, "Those 'citizens' are Mafia."
The room fell silent for a moment.
"I know!" the superior snapped. "Do you think I don't know? Do you have to remind me how low we've sunk? Since when does the NYPD rely on the Mafia to find our evidence? Even the clowns in Detroit are laughing at us!"
Somerset hesitated. He chose not to mention that Luca had helped again the previous day—and significantly. There was no need to raise anyone's blood pressure further.
"You're the most experienced detective in this precinct," the superior pressed. "At a time like this, you cannot walk away. New York needs you."
"If I had more time, I would take it," Somerset replied evenly. "But I am weeks away from retirement. This case will not be solved quickly. I will not let this define my career."
"Then suggest someone else," the superior demanded.
"You could contact John McClane or Richie Roberts. They're experienced."
The superior's face darkened. "What kind of suggestion is that?"
He pointed toward the window. "McClane has become a recluse. His family fell apart. He spends most of his time drinking in church basements. He's self-destructive. You think he's fit for this? We'd be better off calling the Mafia full-time."
"And Roberts?" Somerset persisted.
"Go to the evidence room," the superior muttered. "Then you'll understand."
It didn't take long.
While Mills and Somerset had been out investigating, an incident had occurred inside the precinct. During a narcotics investigation, officers discovered several bags of cash hidden in a drug dealer's vehicle. Instead of pocketing the money—as had become disturbingly common—one officer, Richie Roberts, had turned every dollar over to the state.
When Somerset heard the full story, he was genuinely stunned.
Honest. By the book. No side deal.
In this precinct, that made him a problem.
Mills, who had only recently arrived from a smaller department, was equally shaken. He had already realized corruption ran deep—bribes, evidence tampering, drugs resold after being diluted. But seeing it this openly was different.
Through a glass wall, they watched officers counting stacks of seized money—an ocean of green bills covering the table. Richie sat nearby, silent. When the others looked at him, their faces showed contempt. When they looked at the cash, their eyes gleamed with greed.
"Mills," Somerset said quietly, "when an officer turns in that much money, it means only one thing."
Mills understood. Roberts had set a precedent. If he could return a fortune without taking a cut, what might he do next? Report corrupt colleagues? Expose the system?
He would be isolated.
Soon, Richie and his partner walked out. The entire precinct went quiet as they passed. Then someone muttered loudly, "Who the hell do you think you are, acting all righteous?"
Neither man responded. They left without a word.
As Richie walked out the door, he cast one final look over the room—a complicated expression of disappointment and loneliness.
Mills felt a surge of shame. Just days ago, they had been chatting normally. Now he hesitated even to greet the man. He wanted to stand beside him—but feared isolation. In this department, no one partnered with you if you were labeled a problem. No one answered your calls for backup.
This precinct was rotten.
Richie had returned a million dollars. Apart from hollow praise, he gained nothing—only resentment and exclusion.
In the end, Somerset's retirement request was formally denied, and he was ordered to continue working the religious murder case alongside Mills.
As he had predicted, another body was discovered the very next day—this time in Manhattan. A well-known female celebrity had been brutally murdered. The media once again received the news before the police arrived.
Because she was famous, the social impact was far more severe. The story spread beyond New York, reaching Boston, Philadelphia, Washington, D.C.—even Los Angeles on the West Coast. In Times Square, fans gathered in protest, holding signs and shouting accusations at the city. Public pressure intensified, and high-ranking officials were scrambling.
At the crime scene, Mills and Somerset examined the evidence.
"The killer cut off her nose," Mills reported grimly. "Flayed skin from her face. Before leaving, he placed a cell phone in her left hand and a bottle of sleeping pills in her right."
Somerset studied the scene. "If she called for help, she would survive—but her disfigurement would be public. If she took the pills, she would end the suffering."
On the wall, written in blood, was a single word:
PRIDE.
Her beauty had been her greatest asset—her pride. The killer had destroyed it.
Somerset felt as though it wasn't just her face that had been mutilated, but the dignity of the entire New York Police Department.
"The killer is truly following the seven deadly sins," Mills murmured, his tone no longer dismissive.
He couldn't help remembering that Luca had deduced this pattern almost immediately.
Somerset stared at the blood-red letters. "He is using ritual to punish what he perceives as sin."
"The Seven Deadly Sins?" Mills said bitterly. "If we judged humanity by those standards, no one would survive. Everyone carries some degree of sin."
Somerset said nothing. He only gave a faint, weary smile.
For reasons he couldn't quite explain, he thought of Luca—the so-called helpful citizen—and wondered whether that Mafia peace advocate might once again have insight into the mind of this killer.
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